


A spark of that ancient flame

by internationalprincess



Category: West Wing
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-16
Updated: 2003-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:48:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/internationalprincess/pseuds/internationalprincess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Washington was supposed to be the capital of insiders and cynics and the first night Amy had gone out on the town she picked up this ingenue without a mark on her who couldn't be less jaded if she tried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A spark of that ancient flame

She hands her security pass in at the desk.

The guard on duty looks puzzled, but she's tired and can't be bothered with formality, so she shrugs at him and says, "Won't be needing it," as she hugs her coat tight across her chest and pushes the door open with her hip.

The thing they don't tell you about taking a job in the White House is how much you'll miss it when it's gone.

It's three nights since Josh pushed her hard up against the window in his office, cold glass pressing through her shirt at the heat of her skin. Three nights since she whispered his name as a kind of dare, looking over his shoulder, willing the door to open.

Amy wonders when she decided to sabotage her own career.

*

It was Janine who first mentioned Josh Lyman might be screwing his assistant. Thanksgiving two years ago, or thereabouts, and they were forking Chinese leftovers into paper plates to sustain another round of late night calls to Senators who didn't appreciate the words "sexual slavery". Hypocrites.

She knew the White House would send somebody. She was speculating that it would be Josh. What she didn't mention to Janine were her memories of him jogging every morning in college, sleeping in nothing but his boxer shorts and eating cereal for dinner. That one night, when she turned up at the dorm drunk to find Chris out on the town without her, he made her toes curl using nothing but his tongue.

Janine said the rumor was all over town, but Amy was uncharacteristically slow, and didn't connect the name to the face for several days.

Donna Moss.

Short for Donnatella.

*

"Donnatella?" she remembered asking, thinking she must have misheard, because there was no way such a WASPy blond from Wisconsin could be called that.

Washington was supposed to be the capital of insiders and cynics and the first night Amy had gone out on the town she picked up this ingenue without a mark on her who couldn't be less jaded if she tried.

And there she was, stretched out across Amy's mattress, with the sheets rumpled beneath her. The linen was about the only thing she'd taken out of the boxes that surrounded them. She could have been anyone.

The cold pre-dawn light cast shadows across Donna's hip. Like a sculpture, like art history, like her name. Amy had been quickly distracted by the ease with which she could mar that pale, pale skin. Blush here, bite mark there. And afterwards, Donna had been flushed and red, and Amy had whispered, "It's your color."

They'd both lied about what they did for a living.

*

So when Josh came to call, she asked him if it was true, because she's nothing if not direct. And if he was going to be a cliche, he should at least be open about it. And he grinned at her, and told her he was a visible guy. Which could be taken any number of ways if she chose to think about it.

She chose not to think about it.

The morning after the State of the Union she flipped the pillow over while he was in the shower and looked for blond hairs. She didn't think about the Duke t-shirt he pulled on to make breakfast until later.

*

The first time she went to visit Josh in the White House, she changed outfits three times.

The guard at the desk called Josh's office, and then asked her to take a seat. She was wholly unprepared when it was Donna who pushed open the glass door and said, "Amy? Come on through."

Amy searched her face for recognition, or some kind of acknowledgement. Some explanation at least for the way her palms were suddenly clammy, but Donna was giving nothing away.

So Amy drew the thin memories around her, and filed them away. Better this way, of course, she concluded. And she sparred with Josh, let him buy her cocktails, kept a toothbrush in his bathroom, sometimes wore his socks. Still, her throat closed over a little whenever it was Donna's voice on the phone calling to reschedule.

*

Days shifted into weeks, and there were things she wanted to say, though she had no idea what they were. All she knew for sure was that sometimes she caught the scent of Chanel on Josh's clothes, and it was creeping under her skin, sliding in alongside pale cashmere fibers and French-manicured nails.

She was always going to snap when she'd had too much to drink.

Abbey's birthday, and she found herself slumped on a couch, too many glasses of wine too late to stop herself from staring openly, while CJ rambled on about the graphite in corkscrews. As they wandered back down the stairs to the party, Donna veered toward the West Wing on the pretext of some errand or other. CJ and Abbey had gone on ahead, and Amy was torn.

"It's an amazing dress," she managed finally, too quietly. Hardly compelling as an opening line, but Donna hesitated at least and looked back.

The silence expanded to fill the corridor, crept back upon itself, pounded in her ears.

"Someone once told me it was my color," Donna said softly, her expression completely unreadable. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and walked away.

When Josh took the last of his things from her apartment he left behind a cell phone charger, a Stones CD, and three index cards covered in Donna's precise hand.

Amy couriered the charger back to his office.

*

Amy didn't think twice when Abbey offered her the job. Her mind was three paces ahead of itself, thinking about the HHS appropriations and knowing without question that Josh would never have proofread the final bill. It would amount to a small victory, but it was an announcement, a comeback.

Much later in the day, as she scrawled a semi-sarcastic fax on a sheet of hotel notepaper, she wondered what Donna would make of it when she read it.

She told herself she was relieved that Donna didn't appear to care. She remained implacable, untouchable, circling Josh constantly, and yet just out of reach. Amy was frustrated with herself, so she painted her toenails blood red, wore her shirts buttoned lower, and started sleeping with Josh again.

*

Sometimes the reasons she came up with for visiting the bullpen were completely legitimate. Other times they were a stretch. It was hard to gauge whether Donna thought her thinly-veiled excuses were for Josh or not. But Amy couldn't seem to unsettle her, no matter how hard she tried. She often slid into sleep wondering what had happened to her, why she was so distracted. Maybe the lack of a reaction was slowly driving her crazy.

Amy was used to always eliciting a response.

As she found herself wandering toward the West Wing for the third time, she began to seriously contemplate therapy. It was difficult to spin the Wellingtons much further, and she knew Josh had gone for the day. Donna seemed surprised to see her, but Amy was on a mission. She had to get this out in the open before it drove her insane.

She found herself saying, "Have you got a minute to work with me on this?" Stole beers from Josh's fridge and leaned back in her chair, needling Donna about him as a way to get under her skin.

"I understand why Josh may have been offended by what I said, even though it was misinterpreted. What I don't understand is that both times we've spoken about it, it seemed like you were, too."

There had to be a way through this front. A way past the cold glass exterior, the thin shards of composure.

"Josh worked for Hoynes for a long time. There was a reason."

Amy didn't mind being obtuse, they both knew it was Josh who had left Hoynes.

Donna started to get defensive, Amy took satisfaction in seeing the first tiny cracks in the facade. "And if you think that was easy," she hissed, "you're crazy. Josh doesn't leave people."

"I get that he was close to Hoynes. What I don't get..."

Donna interrupted, too quickly, too forcefully, "You have to get Josh." Abrupt. Brutal. If Amy cared, it would have been a well-timed slap to the face. Adrenaline cranked through her, her skin felt alive.

Donna stood and turned her back on Amy while she railed about Josh's past, what made him the way he was. Amy wasn't listening, toying instead with her beer bottle, taking a deep breath, watching Donna come unstuck.

The room was quiet for a stretching, fluid moment. Donna was frozen, wouldn't turn around. Amy's tongue felt thick in her mouth.

"You in love with Josh?"

Donna's shoulders rose and fell. There was nothing to say, no right way to answer that question. Amy stood, tasted the lust of triumph, had found her feet again in more ways than one. She walked slowly around the table.

Donna still didn't turn around. Amy reached out and put a hand on her waist. Donna flinched, but didn't move away. Amy swept the blond curtain of hair to one side, leaned in impossibly close, and pressed her lips to the side of Donna's neck. "Are you," she whispered slowly, "in love...with Josh?"

Amy pulled Donna back, pressing against her, sliding her hand under the hem of Donna's top and along the warm skin of her abdomen.

Donna let her breath out in a rush, saying softly, "You know that I'm not."

The next few seconds blurred. Donna turned in her arms, slid forward to kiss her, and the moment shattered in to a thousand pieces of sound. The phone on the desk behind her began to ring, and as if joining a chorus of protest two phones across the room rang out. Donna's beeper, on her waistband pressed between them, burst in to life and Amy jumped back. A succession of doors began to slam open as an agent ran the length of the bullpen full sprint, and the flush of uncertainty that had decorated her features turned into fullblown panic across Donna's face.

*

The situation became intolerable.

Zoey's abduction had taken Abbey as well, leaving Amy sunk in a sea of paperwork with no purpose, no compass. All the power and influence she'd craved, and no mandate to use it.

Josh had again found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, and once more unable to protect the people he loved, became reckless, uncertain. The more they slept together, the further away he seemed. Grinding, grasping, clutching at what was long gone. Misjudging each step.

And with Donna, the situation could only have been charitably described as a natural disaster. Amy's phonecalls diverted to whichever assistant was at the next desk. Emails went unanswered, and she tired of asking Josh's preppy intern why she wasn't at her desk. Besides, the last time she did that, he asked her out.

Amy began to spiral, lost her balance. Instead of climbing back out of the hole, she pulled the walls in on top of her. So Abbey wasn't around-- didn't mean the agenda couldn't advance. So she knew the door was thin, only one person was going to hear Josh slam her up against it. So what if the intern knew, if it was only a matter of time before the Post did. She didn't stop to wonder where her professionalism had gone, didn't pause to figure out why she no longer cared.

Faster, harder, higher.

And there were blue eyes in her nightmares and ropes of blond hair tying her down.

Turns out it takes the President of the United States yelling at you to arrest such a fall.

*

She doesn't bother going back to her office, finds herself pouring a cup of coffee in the Mess. Angela Blake is sitting at a table with binders piled high in front of her. Amy may not have been concentrating lately, but she knows why Angela's here. She pours a second cup.

"How are you?" she asks, sinking in to the seat opposite.

"Better than you look," Angela retorts, reaching for the coffee and stacking some papers out of Amy's way.

Amy shrugs. There's not much to say. It's time to move on. She needs to pack the small lessons from this chapter away. Find a clean slate, a ninth life.

Angela's rubbing at her eyes, hasn't slept, and Amy remembers well what it's like to prove yourself to this administration. It's a tough crowd.

Suddenly it occurs to her. A tiny gesture, a parting gift. She can't send a card or leave a note. Flowers would go straight in the trash, letters would remain unopened. But this would be enough, this would be goodbye.

"You know there's someone here who knows these drafts backwards. She's switched on, dedicated...she'd have you up to speed in no time."

Angela noticeably brightens, eyebrows raised.

"I'm serious. Ask Josh to give you Donna Moss. She'll put you six months ahead in a day."

Angela's pleased. Amy tunes her out, finishes her coffee too quickly and burns the roof of her mouth. "Good luck," she says finally, ignoring Angela's questioning look. She has no parting advice. Angela won't make the same mistakes she's made.

Amy wraps her coat around herself as she stands, pressing her tongue against the burnt place on her palate.

She heads for the door.


End file.
